Cyan
by stress
Summary: They say that revenge is a dish best served cold.  Nobody knows that better than Spot Conlon - who, all of a sudden, finds himself handed a spoon.  Follow-up to Red.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer**: The character of Spot Conlon in this story is the property of Disney and his likeness is only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.

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><p><strong>Cyan<strong>

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><p><em>The Brooklyn Navy Yard in Brooklyn, 1897.<em>

Scotch O'Reilly was quite a sight.

Picture this: a tall, lanky, scarecrow sort of fella, his legs moving all herky-jerky-like as he wandered around aimlessly in the dark of another Brooklyn night. The fingers on his right hand pushed back the thick locks of dark hair that fell into his coal-colored eyes before rubbing at the knot that was now taking up a good chunk of his forehead. His left hand was held out in front of him to prevent any other unfortunate accidents. Scowling to himself—a deep, dark scowl that made him appear as dangerous as anything else in the shadows—he couldn't help but wish he hadn't gone on this fool's errand in the first place. That, instead of continuing to wander around lost, running into things he couldn't see, he was back home.

And he didn't mean the lodging house, either.

Because while Scotch lodged at the Working Boys' Home located at 61 Poplar Street, that wasn't where he _lived_. On any given moment, when he wasn't trying to work some of the younger scamps into a rigged game of dice, or he wasn't needed to do some sort of nothing task for Butchy, the self-proclaimed leader of the Brooklyn newsies, Scotch could be found right outside of the Girls' Home, pacing back and forth between the lampposts that marked the corners, waiting for the chance to talk to any of the young ladies who stayed there.

Just... just not _that _moment. His head throbbing, his scowl deepening, he was a far cry from the easy-go-lucky newsboy he usually presented himself as being.

The Brooklyn Navy Yard. Hell, he didn't really know what he was doing there, except he had the strong suspicion that he would've been hurting even more than the pain in his head if he dared to skip out on this arranged meeting. But that didn't mean he had to like it. He didn't. Scotch wasn't a sailor; he didn't even know _how_ to swim, which certainly made hot, humid summer afternoons down at the docks both frustrating and a little awkward. Even stepping two feet past the boundaries of the yard put him in the mind of bloated bodies, drowned, dead, slimy things just waiting to pull you under, all the time while his breath caught in Scotch's throat and he struggled to keep from losing it entirely.

Brooklyn newsies weren't a scared bunch. He always told the other fellas he didn't jump into the East River because he didn't want to mess up his dark hair in case one of his lady callers caught sight of him like that. Too busy teasing him about such imaginary callers, none of the others ever noticed the way Scotch flinched when the tiniest of splashes hit his skin. And yet... there he was. Willingly walking into the Brooklyn Navy Yard where, even the youngest of newsies told the tale, if you got caught, the next thing you knew you were drifting out to sea, a sailor whether you wanted to be or not.

Shanghaied, they called it. Scotch took a deep breath and shuddered. There weren't ever any girls on those ships, either.

And that wasn't all. He was dying for a smoke. If he'd managed to nick even the stubbiest of hand-rolled cigarettes off of Wednesday, he'd be lighting it up by now. It would've been worth it too, risking getting caught by the nighttime officers—but not the seamen, he added fervently, crossing himself at the thought—for just one calming puff. Scotch knew the cherry red tip of a lit cigarette would be a beacon as he crept through the darkness of the Navy Yard at night. He didn't care.

No such luck. Except for a bit of string, a marble, a penny or two and some lint, Scotch's pockets were empty. Jittery fingers found solace, pulling at the string, rolling the marble back and forth between the tips of his fingers and the fleshy part of his palm, something, anything to keep his mind off of what he was doing. And where he was because, damn it, he had no idea.

Scotch squinted. Now this, he thought, was dark. Real dark, too, not just the black of night you got when the sun had set for the evening. If he'd been thinking—and considering he'd spent the afternoon trying to convince a new, young laundress to show him her clean petticoats, it was safe to say he hadn't been thinking... at least, not with his _brain_—Scotch would've brought a candle or some matches with him. He didn't. The darkness settled on his shoulders, leaving him barely able to see the shadows of the objects littering and blocking his path.

He huffed. Would it have killed them to put a lamp or two out here? _Lordy_.

Too late, he almost walked into some mangled steel siding propped up in front of him; his head still throbbing from the pole he cracked his forehead against earlier, Scotch didn't think he would've made it through another hit. After that near-miss, he tried to pay closer attention where he was going, his mind forever wandering as it did, while he struggled to remember the directions he'd been given only that morning. It wasn't supposed to be far but it already felt like ages since he slipped away from the other fellas.

Needless to say, Scotch O'Reilly was not in a good mood. No, not one bit.

"Spot? Ach, I can't believe I'm doin' this," he mumbled, his adopted Irish accent a slur as he ducked underneath a pile of steel beams and wooden planks that were blocking his path. They weren't laying there slapdash, it was as if they were positioned there purposely, and Scotch had a pretty good idea by _who_. He raised his voice. "Damn it, Conlon! Are ya here or ain't ye?"

His voice, quiet and clear, seemed to come from out of nowhere: "Scotch, ya came."

"'Course, I came." Now he was grumbling. He still couldn't, well, spot Spot—though Scotch had to give himself some credit. He really hadn't expected Spot to be anywhere near enough to answer. "Now, what's so damn important that I had to cut out on sellin' this evenin' so's I could meet ya? And where the hell are ya?"

"Over here."

Scotch followed the sound of Spot's steady, cocky voice and nearly started when he caught sight of a pair of piercing cyan eyes staring at him from within the gloom.

"Light a bloody match, will ya? We don't all got rat's eyes like you."

There was a snap, a quick cracking sound, and then a sort of sizzle as Spot struck a match and lit the candle he was holding in his right hand. Scotch nodded, impressed. That was Spot Conlon for you. Always got what you needed—usually before you even knew it yourself.

Spot kept the candle at his chin, the flame illuminating his gaunt features like a carved Hallowe'en turnip lantern with a wax stub for a mouth. The effect was both eerie and impressive and, Scotch admitted to himself, just a little intimidating. Spot was a tiny, thin thing, more than a head shorter than Scotch, but that didn't mean anything and they both knew it.

"Follow me," ordered Spot, the single flame reflected in his brilliant cyan eyes.

Scotch hesitated. Maybe it was those fiery eyes, maybe it was his coward's legs... whatever it was, he suddenly had the urge to turn back the way he came. He wasn't sure which was the better idea: taking his chances with the Navy Yard again or stumbling blindly after Spot.

Thinking of the sailors, certain they were hiding everywhere just ready to snatch him, Scotch made his choice.

"Right behind ya, Spot."

Spot turned his back on Scotch and led him forward. Scotch couldn't tell if he was more nervous or relieved when it became clear that Spot had blown out the candle almost as quickly as he had lit it. The dark seemed more crowded now, fuller somehow, and he wasn't sure if his nerves were making him jittery or if he was glad that the dark made it impossible to see any sailors that could be out there. The last thing he wanted was to find himself lost in the Brooklyn Navy Yard so, picking up his knees and hurrying his step, Scotch made sure to stay right on Spot's tail.

In fact, he was so close behind him that when Spot stopped short in front of one of many damp, derelict and abandoned wooden sheds that seemed to appear out of nowhere, only a quick stumble on Scotch's part kept him from barreling right into the back of Spot. Cursing under his breath, Scotch had to work to untangle the tip of his shoe from the coil of ropes he'd gotten wrapped up in. By the time he had finished, Spot had moved an oversized plank of rotted wood away from the front of one particular shed revealing an open door.

In the shadows, Scotch couldn't make out the expression on Spot's face. But that didn't mean he didn't hear the annoyance in his voice as Spot drawled, "Well, are ya comin' in? Or do ya want to get caught by the admiral?"

Scotch was on his feet and hurrying inside the door before Spot had half-finished his threat. Between Spot Conlon and his secrets and his protocol and old Rear Admiral Montgomery Sicard, Scotch thought he'd be better off with Spot. Hey, there were on good terms, right? And, well, if they got caught... Spot knew how to swim all right. Every newsie for himself.

Spot followed Scotch in and in one quick pull, one quick _click, _the door was closed tightly shut behind him. Before Scotch could think of some excuse to get out of this meeting, he heard the same sizzle sound from earlier and Spot had another lit match in his hand. It was barely enough light for Scotch to be reassured that Spot was on the other side of the room, even if Spot had managed to keep his wiry body positioned between Scotch and the only exit available—and then, suddenly, the single match turned into three waving fires dancing on top of the wick of three stubby candles set up along the edge of the far wall.

Scotch could see. Not, of course, that there was much to see. The room inside the shed was small and, apart from the three candles, Spot and Scotch himself, it was empty. It was a shed with only one purpose and Scotch didn't need to have any sort of fancy education to know what that it was. Or why Spot had asked—asked, he laughed wryly to himself, didn't he mean _told—_Scotch to meet him there.

Still, that didn't mean he wasn't going to ask—

"Alright," Scotch said, false bravado making his accent slip in and out. It hadn't escaped his notice that Spot had once again taken up the place right in front of the closed door. "Ya wanna tell me what this is all about?"

"What do ya think?"

There was only one thing to think, the same thing Scotch had been thinking since Spot searched him out at the distribution center that morning and arranged this meeting. At well past sixteen now, Scotch had been around the Brooklyn newsboys long enough to know when it started to go bad. He'd been there more than five years ago when Butchy turned on Rooster and ran him out of town. Scotch knew which way the wind was blowing. He could feel it in the air.

So he answered Spot with one word: "Butchy?"

"Butchy," Spot agreed with a nod.

That's what he figured. Just once, thought Scotch, he wouldn't mind it if he actually turned out to be wrong.

"I don't know," he said, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously with his hand, "you've got your supporters and Butchy's got his. I hear Dodge has been gearin' up to take over Brooklyn when Butchy can't cut it no more."

Dodge McLain was Butchy's right-hand man, his second. No one knew anything about him: where he came from, who his people were, what he was doing in Brooklyn. He just appeared one night a couple of winters ago, with a face like an angel and the devil's propensity to lie, cheat and steal. Dodge was fifteen, maybe sixteen—he would never tell—and the only boy who was listed in Mrs. Kirby's ledger under his nickname because, as he argued, how did _she_ know that his mama hadn't named him Dodge?

"Dodge ain't worth half of Brooklyn." Spot sniffed and spat onto the ground. "Didja hear what he did to that kid who tried takin' his sellin' spot just outside of Plymouth Church?"

"Yeah," Scotch said, and even he sounded a little queasy at the memory, "I heard."

"Don't tell me ya want to pledge your loyalty to a no-good scabber like that?"

"Now, I didn't say that, Spot..."

"If Dodge didn't have Butchy's protection... hell, if Butchy wasn't still considered leader 'round here... I would've soaked 'im myself. I'd like to think you'd be at my back, Scotch. I'd like to think you woulda helped."

"I woulda," Scotch told him. "Ya know I woulda."

And the kicker was that he meant it, too. A boy who was as charming as a weasel but charismatic despite himself, and pretty damn likeable when he was wasn't out skirt-chasing, Scotch was a big name around the Brooklyn newsboys. He would never be a leader—he wouldn't want to be—but he could be counted on to tell the truth when it mattered and to stick up for those who couldn't stick up for themselves.

Spot swallowed his smirk, just managing to keep his expression blank. He knew he had made the right choice in seeking Scotch O'Reilly out. "Yeah. I know."

Scotch brightened up a little. "Maybe Dodge didn't work him over too bad anyway. I heard Tosser can finally walk without his crutch these days."

"Ya know somethin', Scotch? You sure hear a lot," Spot observed casually. "But, see, I ain't here to ask 'bout your ears. We both know that. What about your head? What's it tellin' ya? Who's side ya gonna be on? Who's side are you _on_?"

Quick to the point as ever, Spot hoped to remind Scotch what they were doing there. But Scotch wasn't about to let Spot catch him off guard like that.

He scoffed. "Oh, righto. I tell ye I'm with you and suddenly I got Butchy at my throat. I say I'm with Butchy and Dodge and hell if I'm leavin' this room."

"It ain't like that. You got my word. I trust ya—" Scotch's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "Alright, I trust ya as much as I can trust anyone about this."

Scotch stuck his hands in his pockets, his dark eyes flitting over Spot's head, towards the closed door. Quickly, he tried to work out the odds of getting past Spot and out of the shed without getting entangled in a fight he wasn't too sure he had a chance of winning. Then he wondered if those damn dirty sailors were still skulking around in the yard, ready with their rope and a bottle of gin for the next unlucky sap to stray in their path.

Whichever way he looked at it, he was trapped. There was nothing else for it.

He exhaled and slumped his shoulders. Because, when it counted, it mattered to him to tell the truth. "So maybe I have been doin' a little thinkin' meself lately."

"And?"

"Well, I can't say I like the way Butchy's been runnin' things lately."

"I'm listenin'."

"I mean... it's the spirits, ain't it?" Spot didn't say anything in answer to that so Scotch, feeling the pressure of speech that had gotten him and his big mouth into more trouble than he could ever want, simply kept on talking. "It's like this, right? Butchy's been leader for what? Five years now? Brooklyn's a tough city, aye, and she can bring any man to his knees. We know that. With Butchy it's the pub what saves him, Rooster before him had his opium dens. Butchy would do anything for a drop of good, strong whiskey and Brooklyn's been sufferin' for it. But he's got his reputation, he has, as tough as they come, so maybe it's a good fit... I don't know. Still, I've been listenin' and hearin' and thinkin'—" He paused but Spot remained silent, and Scotch continued, "—Spot Conlon, he's tough, too. And, well, maybe it's time for a little fresh blood at the top." He took a deep breath and then exhaled. "So, yeah. That's what I've been thinkin'."

Once it was obvious that Scotch had said all he could say—all there was to say—only then did Spot speak up again. "So," he asked, and there was little emotion in his drawl, "you're with me?"

Scotch held his hands up in front of him. Somehow he got the idea that, for all he said, Spot Conlon hadn't heard a single word of it. "Look, I ain't about to start fightin' Butchy or nothin', Spot, that ain't what I said."

"And I ain't askin' ya to. That's my fight. But, tell me, Scotch... will ya be standin' beside me when I'm done? If he knocks me down, will ya offer me your hand? Will ya stand up to Dodge if I ask ya to? Tell me, Scotch... will ya be my second?"

There was a heavy moment, a heartbeat that seemed to last an eternity as the past, present and future of the Brooklyn newsies hung on Spot's question and the one word answer he waited to hear from Scotch. Scotch bit back a sigh, knowing that even a night in front of the Girls' Home could never get him in as much hot water as this one secret meeting with Spot Conlon.

Nevertheless, he nodded. "Yeah, Spot. You can count on me."

For the first time that night, Spot finally allowed himself one fleeting smirk. With Scotch O'Reilly on his side, he finally tipped the scales.

It was a start.

To seal the deal, the two of them spit in their hands and shook. Once it was done, Spot stepped aside to let Scotch out of the shed first and, by luck or by providence, the two of them proceeded to make it back to the Working Boys' Home without being spotted by anyone else.

The tide had turned at last.

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><p>No one ever came out and said that there was going to be a fight. Spot didn't go up to Butchy and throw down the gauntlet; Butchy didn't accept the dare or, itching for a scrap, demand that Spot come in front of him so that he could put the younger boy into his place. There was no need for either of them to. Not in Brooklyn.<p>

In Brooklyn, even the weather knows when a fight is coming. Like a storm that's been brewing for awhile, the fight for the leadership—for the _ownership_—of the city happened one afternoon when no one expected it—but, caught up in the rush of it, found themselves a part of all the same. The sky was cloudy, overcast, with only the weakest of sunbeams trickling down as witness. Purple clouds were slipping by, pushed by a wind that was desperate not to miss anything. A metallic tang to the air promised of redemption and glory and, more importantly, _blood_.

It happened during the early evening, about the time the newsboys would've been gearing up to head down to the distribution center. It was hard to tell from the sky, the darkening clouds making it seem later than it really was, and only the working boys' internal clocks told them where they should be—but they weren't. As if they knew, from either the impending storm or from the way the wind blew, they all gathered on Poplar Street and together they waited.

If you would've asked any of them why they waited not a single boy would've been able to give you a reason—

—until, almost as if they planned it (and they hadn't), four more boys joined the crowd and then everyone's stifled waiting turned into the hush of fevered anticipation.

It was time.

Butchy Rogers strode up to the mouth of the alley off Poplar Street—Buckbees Alley it was called—like he owned the very ground he walked on. A big, dull-eyed creature with bristles for hair and a perpetual leer, every step of Butchy's was purposeful. Heavy. Flanked by Dodge McLain, who made Butchy look more like an oafish ogre in comparison, Butchy tilted his head back and sniffed the air.

When he was done, when his plump lips spread out in something that could've generously been allowed as a satisfied, predatory smile, Butchy cast those dull, dull eyes of his around expectantly. "Where's Conlon?" he asked.

Spot wasn't hiding from him. Half Butchy's size but more than doubled in determination, he stepped forward the moment he heard his name spat out by the Brooklyn leader. Scotch was standing right behind Spot, following him towards Poplar and the Working Boys' Home; Spot stepped forward and Scotch patted him reassuringly on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

He flicked the brim of his grey cap up, brushing a stray strand of dirty blond hair out of his face. He didn't mimic Butchy's smile, choosing to eye the much bigger boy daringly.

"I'm right here."

Thunder rolled all around them. Because, in Brooklyn, even the weather had an excellent sense of timing.

Butchy waited until the thunder was done before retorting. "Didn't see ya there." He raised his voice until the rumble could rival the thunder; with a crowd like this one, he wanted every single boy to hear what he had to say. "Don't know how I missed ya."

"Ya see me now, don't ya? Come on, Butchy, I knew you was gettin' old and slow, but I figured you still had your eyes."

The crowd murmured, many of the boys surprised at Spot's nerve, a few insistent that Butchy had it coming. Dodge, with his sweet smile and hell written in his eyes, quieted them all without saying a thing himself. Just one look, a warning, a hint, and the crowd fell quiet.

It was Butchy's turn to speak again.

He appeared less than bothered by Spot's comments. On the other hand, he actually grinned, his teeth like fangs overhanging his bottom lip. This would be the third fight he'd have over Brooklyn and so far he was two for two. Older boys, larger boys than Spot Conlon had tried to run Butchy out of the city before and failed.

Just like Spot would fail.

"Come _on_," he said, and his voice held a hint of mockery, of mimicry to those same two words, "you don't think I'm just gonna up and hand Brooklyn over to you?"

"No," Spot said simply, shrugging his shoulders so that his faded suspenders moved up and down with the motion. "I'm going to take it from you."

Butchy had a laugh like a dying animal, part howl, part roar, part wheeze and, because he had nothing to lose, mostly ruthless and definitely cruel. "Are you now?" he laughed, and his amused grin turned into a predator's sneer again. "Go on. I'd like to see you try."

"I'm ready whenever you are."

"Winner keeps Brooklyn?"

Spot nodded. He should've pointed out that it was winner _gets_ Brooklyn but he let Butchy have his fantasy. "Loser has to take the walk."

The walk... _everyone _knew about the walk. The walk was one way, right out of Brooklyn. Once you took it, you never came back. Sometimes Manhattan swallowed you up, the Bronx or the Bowery maybe, but Brooklyn was never yours again. That's why Spot had to choose his battle carefully—that's why he had to make sure the scales were tipped in his favor. By the time this evening was done, he'd either own Brooklyn or never see it again.

It was a risk he was willing to take. Mainly because Spot felt there was hardly any risk at all.

"Alright." Butchy pushed his sleeves up to his elbows revealing folded fists like ham hocks. He waved off Dodge with a touch of impatience and eagerness. This was his fight—his and Conlon's. "Let's go."

And so the fight for the leadership of Brooklyn began.

Now, Spot Conlon was a calculating fighter. He preferred to get some height on his opponent, a better angle to his slingshot. He could scurry like a rat, climbing ropes, hopping from roof to roof, ledge to ledge with legs that were much longer than his short figure should allow. If it were up to him, this fight would take place in an even tighter alleyway with a fire escape off to the side or on a rooftop with as many ledges as he could get, maybe even the docks since there was the chance of pushing Butchy into the East River to cool him off... if it were up to him. But it wasn't.

This was up to Brooklyn. And in Brooklyn, you fought where you stood. This time the two boys—the old and the young, twenty versus near fifteen, wasted against renewed—met each other in Buckbees Alley and that was where the fight started.

Without a word from anyone there, Wednesday, a one-eyed drifter who swore he lost the other in a fight back when he was a young boy, went just inside the back entrance of the Working Boys' Home to watch and make sure that Mrs. Kirby, the matron, or any of her staff happened to peek out through the door at the wrong moment.

Once this fight started not even the might of Mrs. Kirby could stop it until there was a winner.

There weren't any weapons, not for this fight. Spot's slingshot, almost always stowed in his back pocket, was tucked securely in his locker; Butchy tossed his gold-tipped cane over to Dodge for safe keeping. Hands and fists and thrown punches, even kicks if they could manage, that was how this was fight would be fought.

Butchy landed the first hit. A punch that glazed along Spot's jaw, there was brute strength behind it, enough to make Spot wince though he was too proud to do anything but spit and wait for his turn to retaliate. Butchy blocked each of Spot's attempts, sneering as the undersized Spot tried to break through and make contact. Even when Spot finally caught him, a punch straight to the side of Butchy's left eye, the Brooklyn leader didn't lose his humor—his humor, or his certainty that this was just another dumb kid's sorry attempt at uprooting him.

"You're scrawny," he goaded, his voice thick with sinful pride, his every word heavy and heated, "a _toothpick_. Ya look like one good gust of wind'll knock you over!" As if in answer to his taunts, the wind picked up, blowing all around, blowing around the whiff of stale drink that always seemed to cling to Butchy those days.

That was it. The rank odor of old whiskey that came off of Butchy, it hit Spot harder than one of Butchy's punches right to the chest. For years he grew up with a drunkard father who smelled better than Butchy did; for years he was forced to bunk below Butchy Rogers in the lodging house, forced to abide by the older boy's rules. No more. It was done. Ducking and weaving, bobbing as Butchy grunted and tried to keep up, Spot wasn't pulling his punches any longer. He wanted to _win_.

Before long, he _was_ winning. Spot was quick and Butchy, with all his bulk, he was slow-footed, his reflexes dulled by the past few years on the bottle. For every hit Butchy managed, Spot got in another two and soon it was obvious which way this fight was going.

Spot was keeping a close eye on Butchy. He'd watched Butchy fight countless fights, for Brooklyn or in Brooklyn's name, and he was pretty confident he knew all there was to know about Butchy's style. When he feinted one way, Spot immediately leaned to the other side, always one step ahead. But he was getting cocky, already imagining that gold-tipped cane in his hand, when Butchy rushed forward and swung again.

Stars exploded before his eyes but Spot shook it off. It was a sucker punch, a lucky strike right where it hurt with barely anything behind it; if Spot had been paying closer attention, he would've dodged it. Butchy was tiring.

_Good_.

Some time during the fight, maybe with that last hit, maybe with the first hit, Spot didn't know when, but some time during the fight his teeth had bitten down hard, slicing right along the edge of his tongue. The metallic tang to the air was nothing to the metallic, rusty taste of spilt blood in his mouth; when he spit, he saw red. Swishing the blood around, he grinned, and when he looked over at Butchy, the blood-stained teeth made the older boy stumble back in obvious surprise.

"Is that all ya got?" Spot asked quietly, still grinning. And then he spit again, the ruby red drops staining the dirt at Butchy's feet.

After that the fight was all but over. Butchy's aim was wild, swinging for the sake of swinging, and though he managed to land a couple more hits, they only served to reinvigorate the younger boy. Spot, on the other hand, continued to study his opponent closely and could always tell when it was the opportune moment to strike. He never gave Butchy another chance to do any damage to him while doing the most damage as he could.

"Look at ya!" Butchy howled through a fat lip and a rapidly swelling eye that made it difficult for him to see anything. He was panting, his words a distraction more than anything, a way to get Spot to swing just as wildly back at him. "What kind of leader will _you_ be? What kind of _man_? For God's sake, your damn suspenders are pink, Conlon!"

Just like Butchy wanted, Spot reared his arm back one final time. "They're not pink," he snapped, his arm letting loose with a strike that hit Butchy right under his already injured eye with as much force as he could muster, and more than he should've been able to use. A split second later its twin followed, catching Butchy right on the underside of his chin.

Butchy was stunned, Spot's fists making contact with a loud pair of cracks like thunder, _one, two_; they reverberated through his head, starting at his jaw and traveling north. His teeth rattled, dark splashes danced in front of his eyes, and he had the sudden, horrible sensation that the ground was moving underneath him. Scrambling for control, his arms wheeling backward as if he could find some sort of perch, the ground kept moving, his feet couldn't support him and, with all of Brooklyn watching—the boys, the trees, the purple clouds up above—Butchy Rogers fell to the dirt.

He landed with a thud and there were plenty of newsies who would've sworn they felt the earth shake the instant Butchy hit. Lying on his back like a felled tree, the big, butch newsboy tried to push himself up into a sitting position, he tried to get back to his feet, when suddenly there was a boot on his chest and he knew that it was over.

A gasp rippled through the assembled crowd but not one of them said a word.

The moment belonged to Spot Conlon.

He looked down coldly on the former leader of Brooklyn with cyan eyes like diamonds and ice. Butchy was right—he was slim and slender and the weight of his boot shouldn't have been enough to keep Butchy down. But the weight of Brooklyn on his shoulders made him heavier than anything else and he kept Butchy right were he wanted him with ease just as the first, thick, chilled drops of rain began to fall.

Then, with bruised knuckles and a stinging wrist, Spot plucked at his suspender strap. "They're not pink," he said again with a blossoming smirk that didn't quite meet his brilliant eyes, "they're _red_."

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><p><strong>End Note<strong>: Well, that begins the sequel to _Red_. Just like with that story, I wanted the first chapter to serve as a prologue to what the story will be about. There's plenty of hints about the forthcoming plot here - and, of course, I just wanted to feature Scotch again ;) There were slight mentions of Spot running Butchy out of Brooklyn and Scotch being a help in the first story so I thought I could tie them in together a little with this opener.

For Red/Spot fans, though, don't worry - we'll see the couple together in the next chapter... as well as some other old characters... and a new face or two ;) And I know it took me forever to get this up but I hope it was worth the wait. This story promises to be quite interesting!

- _stress, 09.16.11_


	2. All's Fair in Love and War

**Disclaimer**: The character of Spot Conlon in this story is the property of Disney and his likeness is only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.

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><p><strong>Cyan<strong>

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><p><em>Brooklyn, 1901.<em>

Mrs. Lucy Kirby was dead.

It was to be expected. The cough had been coming on for a handful of years, only growing worse and worse as the turn of the new century approached and then it was_ worst_; before long, the oncoming rasp of a dry, rattling cough was a better sign the matron was walking the halls than the familiar clack-clack-clack of her sensible shoes. The coughs left her weak, her weakness leaving her unable to teach the evening lessons or stay up at all hours to make sure the boys were behaving, and it seemed as if her coughs were more serious than anyone had thought.

No one was surprised—and none of them were pleased—when Mrs. Cole replaced Mrs. Kirby as matron of the Working Boys' Home during the fall of 1900. Mrs. Kirby's strength had failed her entirely and she was placed in the hospital where, if God was listening, she would get better.

She didn't. Four short months later and the woman was dead.

It was to be expected—but that didn't mean that she wasn't mourned. Especially by the young Brooklyn wards she tended to and watched over for the last decade or more.

Mrs. Kirby was laid to rest at the Green-Wood Cemetery but that was for the society ladies and the hobnobs of Brooklyn; something about the foreboding main entrance to the grand cemetery warned the newsies from trying to attend the service. Spot Conlon, who was in the habit of halfheartedly crossing himself and only because he picked up the tic from Scotch, figured St. Vincent's would burst into unholy flame if he attempted crossing over the threshold. The other boys, following his lead, chipped in a penny for a wreath of flowers. Their new matron, old, hawk-faced Mrs. Cole, promised to lay it on the grave in their name. Not quite trusting the woman, Spot sent Murphy along after her to spy and make sure she did.

Murphy returned later afternoon with word that Mrs. Cole had done as she said and, for the first time since she took the reins, Mrs. Cole found the boys an easier lot to manage. Life was a little smoother in the lodging house after that for her and even Scotch O'Reilly managed to meet curfew for the first couple of nights.

And with that, for most of them at least, it was the end of Mrs. Kirby. There weren't too many who remembered Mrs. Kirby when she died, very few had grown up under her watchful eye like Spot had, or Scotch or even Wednesday. Scotch declared that losing Mrs. Kirby was worse than losing his own mam and, dragging Wednesday along with him, went to mourn Mrs. Kirby with a half a bottle of his namesake to split between them. Spot, who secretly agreed with Scotch and thought he had the right idea, turned down the invitation to join them—but that didn't mean he was above the grief. It just meant he didn't want to share it with anyone else.

So, instead, Spot Conlon went down to the local pub alone the evening Mrs. Kirby was buried. If Red knew where he was going, she would've tried to stop him; she didn't approve of drink, especially if Spot was the one drinking it, and in not so many words, would always remind him of what happened the last time he drank too much while she was around. Still, an Irish boy, born and bred, Spot knew of only one way to deal with sorrow and that was to drown it.

One drink, that was all. He nodded over at Charlie the bartender who, without even blinking an eye, poured out a liberal shot of whiskey for the world-weary boy. Only a few weeks shy of his eighteenth birthday, Spot had been tipping back whiskeys since he was sixteen and he realized for the first time what made the spirit so enticing to Butchy Rogers. The things the leader of Brooklyn had to see, had to do—not to mention the things, the memories, the _ghosts_ Spot had to deal with on his own—it was no surprise that a little help was needed.

He held the glass half-full of the sloshing amber liquid in his right hand, contemplating it.

"To Mrs. Kirby," he said and, in one gulp, drained his glass. He barely flinched as the all-too-familiar burn raced down his chest. He sat his empty glass back on the counter top. "Maybe now that she's gone, Liam can finally stop hauntin' _me_."

Liam... to her final days, Mrs. Kirby refused to call Spot anything but his hated given name. Deep down he suspected he would miss it, miss having that one person who knew him when he was still Liam Conlon, a sticky-fingered eight-year-old boy who ran to the Working Boys' Home because he didn't have anywhere else to go when his father turned him out. Of course, that didn't mean he would share that with anyone else—not even with Red, who'd taken it in her head lately that Spot couldn't really be the only name he had—and as he sat at the bar, he felt as if he'd lost part of himself when Mrs. Kirby died.

Then again, he wasn't sure he'd want it back, even if that were possible. Which, of course, was another reason he'd headed to the pub that night.

Charlie was lingering at the other end of the bar, filling mugs, pouring out whiskeys, spitting tales with some of the regulars. Glancing up, he caught sight of Spot's empty glass and made to come over. Spot shook his head. One drink, that's what he told himself. Besides, it wouldn't do to get drunk. He hadn't made that mistake in months, not since he first discovered that Red—_his _Red—was promised to marry that bastard, Tommy Sanders, and he wasn't about to start now.

There wasn't much Spot Conlon was afraid of. Waking up with blanks for a memory, covered in blood he couldn't explain, the worries that he couldn't even control _himself_... that was Spot's second biggest fear. Damn if it was specific, but it had happened once before and he was stubborn enough to make sure it never happened again.

Even if his mouth watered for just one more taste...

Spot swallowed and, if only to take his mind off of the whiskey bottle in Charlie's hands, cast a steely gaze around the tavern. Dim and dank, conversations muffled and muted so they wouldn't be overheard, the tavern was a dead-end dive that only the lost and the lonely found solace in; just then, Spot wasn't sure where he fit in, only that he fit in perfectly. Things were calmer these days, the cold and the snow keeping those with homes in them. The fear that stalked the streets last summer had given way to the apathy of those endless winter nights.

Amazingly, he thought, there were less people in the bars now than during the height of the Beast's reign in New York City—but there were still some.

There was an old man watching him from a darkened corner, a thin, rail of a man lurking in the shadows while nursing his tumbler of gin. Spot caught him staring and, seeing that he wasn't a threat, looked away. Maybe the man thought Spot too young to be wasting his evening in the bar, or maybe he just envied Spot's youth, whatever it was, he couldn't really find it in him to care. Spot was only too aware of what a lifetime of spirits did to the unlucky bastards who survived on the still. He didn't need any other reminders.

Instead, picking up his empty glass again, he stared down at the few drops of whiskey that ringed the bottom and frowned if only because he'd been the one to empty it.

For a one thump of a heartbeat grief gave way to guilt that quickly turned to self-fury. This shouldn't have happened to him. When he was a kid, busy watching his father drink himself into his grave, Spot knew he was too good to ever take up the bottle. For years just the rank odor of stale liquor made his stomach clench and his hands ball into fists. First his father, then Butchy, and he swore it wouldn't suck him in. And it did. He still couldn't take the smell, he found himself breathing through his mouth rather than his nose when he went to the tavern, but the taste... maybe he wasn't strong enough.

Maybe it was just in his blood.

In the back of his mind, Spot knew that Mrs. Kirby would've had a stern word or two for him if she knew that this was how he was mourning her. He was already dreading Red's reaction when she found out—_if _she found out. He wasn't going to tell her. Yeah, she was his girl now—but Spot was his own man.

A man—

Eighteen. Spot Conlon was only going to be eighteen years old, but those ten years were what separated him from the brat he'd been when he up and decided it was time to take care of himself. There had been girls—too many—and friends—a few good ones, too—and now he was as close to being in love as a fella like Spot Conlon could ever be with a person and not a city. And maybe that was what put these ideas in his head. He would be eighteen in a few days, but what then?

He couldn't be a newsie forever. Could he?

Butchy was twenty when Spot ran him out. No other newsboy had stuck around past nineteen before Butchy and, up until a year ago, Spot thought he might make it to twenty-one, maybe even twenty-two with his baby face and his quick wit and even quicker slingshot. He hadn't heard any rumblings yet about the way he was running the city. There were no turf wars, not since the emergence of the damn Beast briefly united all of the territories; when it was the newsies versus a phantom killer, what did it matter if the Bronx wanted to get into a scrap with Harlem? Even now that the Beast seemed to have gone into hibernation for the winter, there was still peace.

And yet... maybe it had something to do with Mrs. Kirby's passing, but it was like everything that had happened to Spot these last few months had happened to someone else, or maybe in a dream that Spot had finally woken up from. Finding Red again after he'd long given up hope on his childhood friend, having her choose him, having her _love_ him... Red wasn't like those other girls he had once known. Instead of trying to figure out how to ditch her, he found himself wondering how to keep her close. Worst of all, Spot hadn't forgotten about the wedding dress her tailor father made for her, wasting away when Red would make a beautiful bride for one lucky bastard.

He'd been entertaining the sneaking hope lately that maybe it would be him, but what if it wasn't? What if that lucky bastard was some other man? How long would it take for Red to realize they were just playing another game? Children again, pretending that a tailor's daughter and a good-for-nothing newsie could ever really be friends, let alone anything more.

Spot held up his glass at eye level, swirling it with one hand, staring at the wobbling drops with such an intensity it was a surprise they didn't burst into flame.

Mrs. Kirby was gone, the one person he'd known longer than anyone else in this world; Mrs. Kirby, the closest to a mother he'd had since he'd lost his own at the tender age of six. Hell, it could've been the grief putting those ideas in Spot's head but he doubted it. Somehow he couldn't help but think that the grief was making things clearer than they had been in the longest time.

One thing was for sure: for now, Red Woods belonged to Spot. Brooklyn still belonged to Spot. But Spot Conlon was his own man.

Which was why, the next time Charlie made his way down towards Spot's end of the bar and gestured questioningly with the open bottle, Spot just nodded.

* * *

><p>If it was the perfect night to be burned up by a shot of whiskey in order to ignore the pain (or maybe indulge it), it was even better for moonlit meetings underneath the stars. Except, with the dark winter clouds rolling across the sky, there was no moon and there were no stars, but for a young woman with a clandestine meeting on her mind, she preferred it that way.<p>

Cinder Harrow was used to the shadows. They were long and tall in the winter but nowhere near as dark and she found it harder to slip inside of them, hiding herself from prying eyes. She turned to an ankle-length cloak, black as the shadows she dealt in, with a hood that she placed over her ratty, knotty raven-colored hair. Not only did it help her move in the darkness, it was a ward to the chill and the bitter wind that ravaged Brooklyn in early February.

And the fact that it was a dark mockery of the red cape that damn Red Woods wore... that was just a fair coincidence, Cinder insisted.

The wind was whipping, sending her hair flying around her head, her cloak tangling at her ankles until she tamed it with one firm tug into place. The heavy scent of snow was on the air, the promise of another damn white tomorrow. Cinder shivered, taking care to side-step a patch of well-trodden ice that she nearly stepped on. She was later than she should've been, later than she wanted to be, and in her haste, she wasn't going as carefully as winter in Brooklyn warranted.

There was a small park in front of her, nothing as fancy as Prospect Park or anything like that, a couple of trees and a bench. It was the bench she was heading towards, her head bowed to escape the icy bite of the wind, her gaze turned down for any other treacherous patches of old ice. She knew a girl at the factory, a small whelp called Bitsy who took a bad turn on the ice and lost both kneecaps and her job. Cinder wasn't going to let anything like that happen to her.

The closer she drew to the park, the more obvious that there was a shadowed figure already sitting on one side of the bench. Whether on purpose or not, he wore a dark grey shirt, a grey cabby hat and black trousers that kept him as hidden by the dark night as Cinder. He was poised on the edge of his seat, his head swiveling back and forth as if he was waiting for someone, watching for something, and she knew for sure that he was looking for her.

A little out of breath from the cold and her pace, Cinder took a moment to calm herself before moving towards the bench, softly and slowly.

The figure turned to his left as he heard the gentle steps of her approach. Cinder Harrow may walk like a cat, with near-silent footfalls, but he was both used to listening to sounds many others wouldn't hear and expecting her to come from that direction. He removed his hat as a sign of respect though he didn't stand up just yet. "Cinder," he said, and his voice was smooth and charming, without any accent at all. "I was just about to give up hope that you were coming."

"You said something about gettin' Spot," Cinder explained, looking down on him but trying her best not to see him. It was one thing to get a message from him, but to actually see him again? And to think that she thought she was stronger than this... "Of course I came."

"I remember saying it was about getting _back_ at Spot."

"To me, that amounts to the same thing."

"You look good," he told her, moving so that he was right in her line of vision, forcing her to meet his light stare.

"Don't expect me to say the same," Cinder snapped, just a little on edge. She could hardly believe that, after all this time, she was face to face with him again. And, regardless of what she said, he looked _better_. She frowned. "Fishin' for compliments as always, Dodge?"

Dodge McLain's face lit up with an angelic smile. It was easy to see that, with his golden curls and sea-foam green eyes, Dodge had no trouble getting compliments. "I just thought I'd pass a kind minute before we got down to business." Then, with a gallant move, he gestured to the empty seat beside him. "Join me?"

"I'd rather stand."

He was on his feet in an instant. "Then I'll join you."

Cinder hadn't expected him to move so close, so quick. Only years of experience, surviving on her own, working in the factory during the days, scrapping on the streets at night... only her last few years of living kept her from darting away when Dodge was only a couple of inches away from her nose. But that didn't stop her from warning him, "Come any closer and I'll—"

She didn't even finish her threat. Dodge clutched at his heart, wounded; his eyes still gleamed wickedly. "Is that how you treat such an old-time pal? After all these years?"

Cinder snorted and, crossing her arms over her chest, took advantage of the moment to take a few steps back. "Dodge, you've been gone... what? Three years now? Four?"

"Four."

"That's what I thought. You've been gone four years now and, outta the blue, I get a message that you're back and all ya want is to get revenge on Spot. That right?"

"Something like that, darlin'," Dodge agreed, his smile back in place. He even managed to look a little amused.

Cinder, though, her dark eyes flashed at the way he called her "darling". Sneering, her thin lips drawn back to present her feline-like fangs, she bristled and drew herself up to her full height. "I don't care that you're back. We've never been friends—"

"You want to use the word lover instead?" Dodge asked innocently.

"That would make it sound like love was involved," Cinder shot back.

"Then what do you want to call it, seeing as how we—"

"Shut up, Dodge... just, _shut up_, alright? Ancient history, that's all that was, and a goddamn mistake if ya ask me. I was young and stupid, you was—"

"Handsome and charming?" supplied Dodge.

"—ridin' my skirt until I finally let you have what you was after," Cinder accused. "I was weak... but I ain't like that anymore. I ain't that little girl who got her head turned by the fella who thought he'd be runnin' Brooklyn next."

Dodge pretended to think about it for a second, tapping his chin with one long, slender, pale finger. "No," he said, as if just coming to the conclusion, "you're just the tramp who hung back and then jumped into Spot Conlon's bed willingly the second he ran Butchy out of town."

For some reason, being called a tramp by Dodge McLain had a much better effect on Cinder than his simpering use of _darling_. She huffed. "So what's it to ya? That's why we're here, right? You want to get back at Spot?" She jutted her chin out in defiance. "What for?"

The air of playfulness that had surrounded Dodge—because it was such a grand game, baiting Cinder like that—disappeared at once. "Because he took something that was mine," he told her, and she could hear that even his voice had changed from merriment to sudden seriousness. "Something that belonged to me. My greatest love is being wasted by Conlon and I won't stand for it any longer. I've come here to get it back."

Despite her better instincts, Cinder listened to the possessive way Dodge spoke of his love and, almost as if she couldn't control herself, her chest started to puff out a little in unbridled pride, a purr-like contentment rising up to her throat—

—until Dodge got one look at Cinder, the factory girl damn near preening as she looked up at him, and he snapped, "Oh, don't flatter yourself. I was talking about Brooklyn."

His barb was as sharp as a pin and perfectly positioned to puncture her. Like a balloon that had been popped, Cinder deflated and if it wasn't for the fact that she'd walked into that trap herself, she would've licked her own wounds. Instead, with a glare as fierce as any stray cat, she glared over at him.

Dodge simply laughed, looking all the more handsome for it. Four year later and he could still turn Cinder Harrow's head and bring her to her knees. No love _indeed_. "So that's me," he said sweetly with an innocent grin; the game, if that's what it was, was back on. "What about you, Cinder? Why've _you_ come here?"

Cinder blinked Dodge's smiling face from her eyes, searching for Spot, seeing Spot... Spot and Red... and any and all annoyance she felt towards Dodge was nothing compared to the heat of the fury that burned Cinder up when she thought of Spot and Red together.

"Because he chose that damn blondie over me," she spat out. "Spot was _mine_ and she took him. I'll never let either of them get away with that!"

"Blondie?" Dodge quirked an eyebrow, suddenly a whole lot more interested in anything Cinder had to say. "Why don't you tell me about this blondie of Conlon's. Is she pretty?"

The green of Cinder's cat-like eyes flashed murderously. "Not as pretty as me."

"Rich?"

"Hardly. Her father is a tailor." Cinder said _tailor _like it was a bad word and Dodge thought he might understand a little better now.

"Powerful?"

"Ain't ya listenin' to me? She ain't nothin'!"

Dodge pursed his lips, a tease. "Then why would he ever choose her over you, Cinder?"

Cinder wrapped her cloak tight around her shoulders; hate burned in her eyes, coming off of her in heated waves, but still she was cold. So very cold. Blaming it on Dodge, she glared at him as she said, "I've been askin' myself the same question for months."

"What if I told you I could give you the answer you've been looking for? Or, better yet... hear me out, Cinder," Dodge said, holding up his hand when she opened her mouth, "how about I told you I could give you the answer you _want_. _What_ you want."

"Go on. I'm listenin'."

"When I have Brooklyn, you can have Spot—"

"Ha!" Cinder's wry laugh exploded out of her. "Like I haven't heard that before." And then, because Dodge looked torn between being annoyed that she interrupted him anyway and slightly curious, she went into the whole story of Tommy Sanders and how he promised her Spot in exchange for Red Woods for himself only for the both of them, Cinder and Tommy, to end up alone.

"See, that's where we differ, your friend Tommy and me. I'm not doing this for the love of a girl," Dodge sneered, the expression making him ugly for the first time that night, "this is about the love of a _city_. Besides, you didn't let me finish before. When I said you could have Conlon, I was meaning all of him or just parts of him... you could have his head on a plate, if you want it. 'Cause either I run him out of Brooklyn after a fair fight or I kill him and take Brooklyn anyway. And you know me, Cinder—I've never been much of a fair fighter."

"_Kill_ him?"

"What's that they say?" Dodge asked, as if he hadn't heard Cinder's gasp. "'All's fair in love and war'? In that case, maybe I'm a fairer fighter than I thought."

It struck Cinder then, a cold that went deeper than the icy February wind; she pulled her cloak even tighter, trying to sink beneath the heavy black fabric as if she would just disappear. Revenge... revenge was what she was after. But murder? Not that again. "Dodge, I—"

Dodge reached up his hand and, for one wild moment, Cinder thought he was going to hit her. She didn't flinch, though she wanted to, and when all Dodge did was pluck idly at the golden curl at his forehead, she felt foolish. But that feeling was short-lived, switching easily over to a nervous sort of dread as soon as Dodge added conversationally—

"I should tell you... if you go on and rat me out to Conlon first, you get cold feet and try to back out now... 'All's fair in love and war'... well, I'll just have to consider that to be a little bit of both."

And Cinder knew, certain as the understanding that she'd made a huge mistake meeting him that night, that he meant every word.

* * *

><p>- <em>stress, 10.01.11<em>


	3. Another Time Then

**Disclaimer**: The character of Spot Conlon in this story is the property of Disney and his likeness is only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.

* * *

><p><strong>Cyan<strong>

* * *

><p>Charlotte Woods was sitting in her bedroom, stubbornly trying her hands at sewing a gift. Then again, considering she'd already pricked two fingers and there was a make-shift bandage, a bit of lace torn from her chemise, wrapped around her sliced thumb, it might've been better to point out that she was trying one hand and the two good fingers she had left on the other at sewing a gift.<p>

Needless to say, it wasn't going well.

Still, she'd been working at it again since her father went back down to his tailor's shop after lunch and, though she knew it was about time she started wondering about supper—whether she wanted to have something prepared, or if her father should run along to the corner deli for sandwiches—she couldn't bear the fact that she was fighting a losing battle with a bit of fabric, some thread and a needle that was too sharp for her own good.

It was to be a heart-shaped pillow, a silly, girlish fancy, but she was fooling herself if she thought it looked like anything other than a lopsided bean—and she hadn't even put the stuffing inside yet!

She had borrowed some of her father's best fabric, colored the same red as Spot's favorite blanket and Charlotte's ribbon, with thread that was dyed to match. She wanted nothing more than to create something from her heart for Spot's upcoming birthday, a nice pillow he could stow away in his shed for when he needed it, but she couldn't give him _this_. He deserved so much more than this Frankenstein creation.

Maybe, she thought hopefully, pulling at a loose thread, eyeing a crooked seam in despair, maybe Papa could help—

Her thought stopped right there. She wouldn't allow it go any further, and it wasn't just because she knew that her father couldn't really approve of her loving a Brooklyn newsboy. In thinly veiled frustration, Charlotte huffed and let the mangled bit of fabric fall down to the top of her sewing desk. She couldn't even stand to look at it for a moment longer.

Leaning back on her stool, clasping her suddenly trembling hands in her lap, Charlotte tried not to remember the last time she had asked her father for help to make a gift. Nearly five months ago now, last September when Tommy Sanders celebrated his twenty-first birthday, she had painstakingly constructed a bow tie as a present for the man she had been promised to marry. Now, though, now that it was the first week of February and she was with the boy she _wanted_ to marry, she longed to create something that showed him how much she cared.

Oh, she could _buy _him a gift. Or maybe take him to see a vaudeville show, just the two of them together. But Charlotte would remember how her last gift to Tommy had been made by hand and darn it if Spot didn't deserve the same, if not _better_. Which was why she had spent the last day and a half trying her best to make this pillow, even if she wouldn't ask her father for help with Spot's gift this time around.

Besides, she knew very well that most of her unease stemmed from the unavoidable fact that her father _didn't_ approve of her relationship with Spot Conlon and... and...

Charlotte huffed and stood up from her seat, her back achy from sitting hunched over her sewing desk. Leaving the half-finished project behind her on the desktop, she walked over to her bed and plopped down at the head, turning her back on the desk and the pillow and her window behind her.

No one knew better than she that once those sort of thoughts started, they couldn't be stopped. Five months later and the ghosts still haunted Charlotte in a way she refused to confide in anyone else. Certainly not Spot, and definitely not her father. They were more alike than either of the two men realized, especially how both Spot and Mr. Woods fretted constantly over her, and she refused to give them any other reason to be concerned.

She could just see it now. If she told Spot about her nightmares, he'd blame himself. Her father would insist on her staying in, maybe even going to visit a doctor or two about her worries. She loved them both, but the way they regarded her as fragile as a China doll, one rough touch away from shattering... it was enough to make her madder than she already thought she was.

Fighting with a needle and thread wasn't helping matters, either.

Charlotte put her head in her tired hands, closing her eyes as if that would stop her from seeing the ghastly visions in her mind. When the dark thoughts, the bad memories, when they all took over, she hated herself for being as weak as she was. She loved Papa and she loved Spot and it hurt her more than she ever said out loud that they didn't get along. But that didn't mean she was willing to give up on her newsboy lover, just like she refused to accept Spot's offer of the two of them running away together. He couldn't leave Brooklyn, not really, and she wouldn't even let him try. The two could stay together there, as difficult as it was, as different as _they_ were.

So what if her father couldn't understand why she chose Spot Conlon over any other man? Mr. Woods had wanted her to marry Tommy when she didn't really love him and look where that had gotten them all—

_The thoughts, the memories, why won't they go away?_

—her father, worked to the bone because he refused to take Ed Sanders' charity any longer. Mr. Sanders, forced to hire an assistant in the butcher shop now that his only son was gone. Tommy, locked up in Bellevue where he could pay for his crimes and not hurt himself or anyone else ever again. Madge Harris, dead...

The darkness made the bloodstains of her memory shine. Her eyes snapped back open, she lowered her hands and groped blindly behind her. Charlotte picked up one of her father's exquisitely stitched pillows and hugged it tightly. Even now, so many months later and she still felt that familiar and hated sense of her chest being squeezed, her lungs aching, her heart breaking whenever she remembered Madge Harris's fate. Whether or not those last words from Tommy had been true or just elaborate lies, whether Madge merely played the role of her friend or not, Charlotte still couldn't forget that a young woman she thought of as a friend was dead in her name.

Tommy killed Madge for her, he had said as much himself. Nothing mattered but that single statement: Tommy did it because he honestly believed Charlotte would want him to.

It was no wonder she was as fragile and as weak as she was: that burden of guilt was a heavy weight to bear. It had been easier lately to tell herself it wasn't her fault, that she hadn't ever really _encouraged_ the butcher's son. Both Mr. Sanders and Mr. Woods repeatedly agreed that she wasn't the one to blame and Spot absolutely refused to let her feel any guilt whenever he was around.

Except, ever since Mrs. Kirby's death, Spot hadn't been around and—

_Tap_.

What was that? Charlotte straightened at the sudden tapping sound, almost sure she had imagined it. Resting on the edge of her bed, tensed, she waited to see if she would hear it again—

_Tap._

No doubt about it that time. It was coming from her window. Someone... someone was throwing pebbles up at her window. There was someone calling for her from outside—

_Tap_, _tap.__Tap_.

—and they were getting antsy.

She got up quickly then and, despite the fact that it was impossible to see from the street, she shoved the in-progress present inside the lid of her sewing desk. A warm and winning smile replaced the look of anguish and frustration that had creased her brow and caused her to frown. No longer afraid when she heard the slap against the glass, she tucked the loose strands of honey-blonde hair behind her ears and straightened her blouse.

There was only one person who ever called for her like that.

Red pulled the curtain away from the window and her smile fluttered as her heart gave that little skip it did every time she saw him. Because there he was. Waiting for her under the lamppost, there stood Spot Conlon. And though she couldn't tell from the distance or the rushing night, he was grinning his cocky, lazy little grin as he stared meaningfully up at her window.

She hadn't been expecting him. Spot had sent Murphy a few days before with the news that the old matron of the Working Boys' Home had passed away after a long, drawn-out bout with pneumonia. And, despite her offer of coming to stay with him, she listened to him when it was clear that Spot obviously wanted to be left alone. Just like how there was a bit of a distance between her world and his, the respectable tailor's daughter and the newsboy, she had learned that, even when she was Spot's Red, there were still a separation that she couldn't breach.

But, whether she had been expecting him or not, he was there and she couldn't deny how the simple sight of that silhouette beneath her window made her heart swell.

Still, she had to be sure. Fumbling with the catch, Red unlocked the window and lifted it high. A cold wind blew in, setting even more of her hair free from her red ribbon's hold. She shivered at the chill but stuck her head out the open window regardless.

"Spot?"

"Yeah, Red, it's me."

"What are you doing down there?"

"Why don't you go on and let down your hair?" Spot's teasing voice carried on the wind up to her window. She could almost swear he was wearing his old, familiar smirk. "I could climb on up then."

He wouldn't take the stairs. In fact, he wouldn't come any closer to Red's home than the lamp post underneath her window. When he was in a good mood, he liked to joke about it; when he was in a sullen mood, he waited under the lamp post until she made her way down; when he was angry, Spot Conlon rarely showed at all.

His habit of lurking underneath her second floor window had everything to do with the Beast and his reign of terror last summer. Even though it had been almost three months since his last attack, when a young streetwalker from Manhattan managed to escape the phantom killer with enough information about the ghoul that he seemed to have fled New York at last, Spot still acted as if he owned that corner, not Mr. Sanders. He dared anyone—the butcher, the tailor, the copper on his beat—to turn him away.

No one ever did.

Because, while there were still threats in Brooklyn, the Beast wasn't one of them anymore, and even if John Woods didn't understand his daughter's affection for a street boy, he couldn't deny that Charlotte was safer in the company of Spot Conlon than wandering around the city on her own looking for him. And, if he forbid her from seeing Spot, that's exactly what she would be doing. He had learned last summer that, despite trying to clip her wings, Charlotte was the sort of young lady who needed to soar. A few months shy of her own eighteenth birthday, her father had finally freed her from her cage.

Nothing showed her that the Beast was no longer to be feared anymore than her father's changed attitude when it came to going out without a chaperone. Maybe it was because his shop had been so busy at the end of last year, with customers fitting their coats and sewing Christmas gowns, but Mr. Woods had hardly had any time to keep up the stock of his trade. When he ran out of something so simple as black thread and some quilted material, rather than hire the shoe-shine boy to run his errands, he allowed Charlotte to visit Mr. Smith and his new shop assistant for the supplies.

And, because he knew that she would just sneak out otherwise, he allowed her the opportunity to take walks with Spot—just as long as she told him where she was going first. Mr. Woods hadn't forgotten about Madge Harris' murder, either...

Red pulled loosely on one thick, wavy strand of her hair. Laughing to herself at the idea of Spot trying to climb it at any length—and marveling at how much it would hurt if he could—she shook her head and called back down to him, "No, silly. I meant: what are _you_ doing _here_?"

She didn't have to say it was late out. The surrounding dark was enough of a clue to that. She also didn't have to mention his recent absence. That hung over their heads like a storm cloud. But she could be curious and, after these last few months together, Red felt as if she had earned that honor.

Spot agreed. "You hungry? I thought I'd take you out for a meal."

She knew better than to invite Spot in. He wouldn't at any rate and if for some reason he did, she couldn't think of a more awkward supper. Except, perhaps, for the night when she got engaged—

That was another thought she stopped dead in its tracks. Red felt her pleased smile waver before she pasted a firmer one in its place. "Just let me leave a note for Papa," she yelled down to Spot, "and I'll be right down."

Spot nodded and then, as easily as if the pole was molded to fit the shape of his back, he leaned up against it comfortably, content to wait.

Red ducked back inside her bedroom before shutting the window and, out of habit, making sure she reset the catch on top. The Beast was a memory but not a far-too distant memory and, second floor or not, she wasn't taking any chances. Then, once she had satisfied herself that the half-finished pillow was still hidden—and still looking nothing like the heart she wanted so badly to create—Red scurried into the kitchen, made her father a quick sandwich in case he was hungry when the tailor shop closed for its supper break, and tucked a note under the plate, letting him know where she had run off to.

Having done all that, she scurried back into her bedroom and threw open the door to her wardrobe. It was cold out and Red wasn't sure how far of a walk it would be before they arrived at one of Spot's chosen haunts. Her cape might be too thin but her father, as a Christmas gift, had tailored her a thicker cloak with a lining that fought back against Brooklyn's cruel winters. She grabbed it from its hook, threw it over her shoulder and ran out the front door.

It was colder outside than she expected. Pausing on the bottom step that led out to the open street, Red pulled her hood up and over her head, shrugged her cloak a little closer and made her way over to Spot, trying to move faster than the bitter wind.

He had on his newsboy cap and a over-sized grey overcoat that looked barely heavier than her cape. But, except from the raw and red ends of his ears and the tip of his nose, Spot didn't seem to feel the cold at all. Red envied him that and moved nearer to him in case he was willing to share some of his warmth.

As she did, as she drew next to him, the wind guided the flickering flame of the gas lamp across Spot's face just long enough for Red to get a good look at him and see that the tip of nose wasn't the only part of his face that was red. His eyes, glazed over and tired, were noticeably so, even if the shadows underneath threatened to swallow them whole.

He looked absolutely _awful_. Red couldn't keep back her disappointed sigh. This wasn't the first time she saw Spot Conlon like this and she prayed it was the last. Bad things seemed to happen—or were about to happen—whenever she found Spot in such a state.

Spot heard her disappointed sigh and, while he had a good idea why she made such a sound, he pretended he didn't. Straightening up, he nodded over at her. "Something wrong?"

She shook her head. "Not with me, no." Red bit down on her bottom lip. "Are _you _feeling alright?"

Spot reached up and tugged on the brim of his cap, hiding his eyes from hers. "Feel fine, Red."

"Were you drinking last night?"

He didn't want to lie, but he damn sure wished she hadn't asked that question. Spot met Red's gaze for a few tense seconds, aware that he looked like he hadn't slept, sure that she could probably still smell the reek of alcohol on his skin, and yet he refused to answer to her. Instead he shrugged, and said with such certainty, "I was mournin' last night," that Red found herself unable to argue.

"I missed you."

"I... I know."

And, for the first time since they met again last July, when Spot made that exchange, there was no hint of the cocky Brooklyn leader he was. In fact, there was a sigh and, finally, he turned his gaze away. But when Red reached out hesitantly and took his ink-stained hand in her good one, he gave hers a brief squeeze back and, suddenly, it didn't matter what Spot did or didn't do last night so long as they were together now.

"So," she said, intertwining her fingers with his, "dinner?"

"I know a great place. Best bratwurst this side of the bridge. Mashed potatoes and real beef drippings, too."

Red knew what Spot was trying to do: he was doing his best to fatten her up. In his newsboy world, when too thin meant you were going hungry and likely to starve to death, Spot blamed himself for how gaunt and skeletal she'd gone in the weeks and months following Madge Harris' murder. She's put plenty of weight back on since then—her color had all but returned to normal—but Spot's newfound habit of making sure she ate had stuck.

So, whether she was hungry or not, she told him she was famished because she would rather eat until she was sick than worry him. If he was willing to take care of her, she was more than willing to let him.

She smiled over at him, a real, heartfelt winning grin. "Sounds great, Spot."

Hand in hand with Red, Spot steered her right past the butcher's shop. For the first few weeks after Tommy's capture, Red had tried her best to continue avoiding the place as she had been used to doing except now she was avoiding Mr. Sanders rather than his son. Spot humored her for awhile but fear was such a foreign idea to the street-bred newsboy. Taking the walk past the butcher's was quicker so that was the way he took. And Red followed him.

It was like watching a carriage turn over—she just couldn't look away. As they passed the large window with the links of sausages and the cuts of beef out for sale, Red couldn't help but glance inside. Business was slow for a weekday afternoon; the only person inside was an impish young man who looked up and waved at Red as she walked by. Feeling it would be rude not to, she lifted up her right hand and offered a dainty wave back.

Spot noticed. "Who ya wavin' at?" he asked, because they both knew it wasn't at Edward Sanders.

"What? Oh..." Red's cheeks went, well, red. She'd hoped that Spot hadn't noticed but there was hardly anything that missed his eye. She looked down at the cobbles at her feet. "No one, Spot."

"Really?" His answer wasn't jealous or bitter but a little bit amused—and definitely curious. Spot quirked an eyebrow. "You just took it in your head to wave at the air?"

The last thing Red wanted was for Spot to think she was being silly, or even lying. "Well, no," she admitted, still looking away. "It's just... Mr. Sanders has hired a new boy. His name is Sam. I was waving at him."

"You've met this Sam already?"

"Yes. He's quite nice."

Spot thought about that for a moment. Nice... Red had thought Tommy Sanders was nice, too. "He's been workin' there long?"

"A couple of days, I think. Papa said Mr. Sanders waited to see if..." Red stopped right there. She never said Tommy's name out loud if she could help it, but Spot knew her well enough by now to see that it was on the tip of her tongue. She shook her head, daring a glance over at Spot. His expression was unreadable but there was a set to his jaw, a hard edge to his thin lips that compelled her to explain. "Sam's his new assistant for the shop. He does the deliveries," she added helpfully.

"A couple of days," Spot repeated, scratching the back of his neck. Maybe he _was_ being antsy, maybe he was being overprotective, but something about this didn't sit right with him. It could've been jealousy but he didn't quite think so. More like the heavy, wary feeling that warns you when a storm's coming. He tried to shake off the discomfort, asking, "And you've already had time to meet him?"

"There hasn't been much for me to do lately," Red said as delicately as she could. She refused to mention the reason: that Mrs. Kirby's passing had meant that Spot had been more than unavailable, lost in his own thoughts, memories, depression and, she suspected, the bottom of a whiskey bottle.

But Spot understood what she wasn't saying. He tapped the tips of his fingers of one hand against the gilded top of his cane. "Maybe I should meet this Sam."

"If... if you'd like. When...?"

"How 'bout now?" And Spot's glazed eyes seemed to brighten at the prospect.

Red couldn't think of a good reason not to. Besides, even if she had, Spot wouldn't agree to it anyhow; when Spot Conlon had his mind set on something, you had a better chance diving off the Brooklyn Bridge and surviving than getting him to change his views. So she nodded and, her heart beating faster and faster, she turned back to face the wind—and Mr. Sanders' shop.

Spot moved even faster, taking one stride for every two of Red's hesitant ones. He reached the door of the butcher's shop first and then waited pointedly just on the other side for her to catch up.

There was a small bell just inside that shop that jangled loudly when Spot threw the door open and ushered Red inside. But, after a few empty moments, the bell stopped ringing and silence took its place; it went unanswered. There was no one else in the whole shop except for Spot, Red and more meat than the Irish newsboy had ever seen before in one place.

One thing was for sure: there was no sign of Red's Sam.

"That's odd," she remarked, looking around in poorly disguised relief. "He was just here."

"Another time then," said Spot after another moment's wait and though it wasn't much warmer inside the butcher's shop than it was outside, when he felt a chill, it wasn't from the cold.

–

A pair of sea-foam green eyes watched curiously from the other side of the street. When they caught sight of Spot's jerk of a shiver as he and the girl stepped back outside, a seemingly innocent smile turned up the corners of Dodge's cruel mouth. Delighted. _Intrigued_. Conlon couldn't have any idea that he was there—there was no way, not even his damn birdies had caught on to Dodge's forbidden reappearance in Brooklyn yet—but, on some level, the Brooklyn leader could tell. Maybe he felt the watchful eyes on his back, maybe he could feel his fair-haired companion already pulling ever so gently away from him, but Spot shivered momentarily and Dodge doubted it was because of the chilly wind.

When Spot spared one more searching glance into the window of the empty butcher's shop before shooting a warning gaze at the darkness and the unseen threats that lurked at his back, that's when Dodge McLain knew for damn sure that Spot was just as curious. Intrigued. _Suspicious_. Taking a leaf out of Cinder Harrow's book, Dodge tugged his dark grey hat down over his golden curls and simply melted into the shadows and Spot's piercing eyes passed over him, a flicker and nothing more.

Cinder, he thought and his innocent smile turned wicked.

She'd been a treasure trove of information, that girl, from the intimate details of Spot Conlon's reign as leader to the very weaknesses she'd discovered on her own, weaknesses that Dodge could use to bring the cocky bastard down. The chance for revenge enticed her to spill, a combination of Dodge's charm and steely promises of retribution kept her talking, and only jealous spite led Cinder to tell Dodge all about Spot's Red.

Or, as she had so naively introduced herself a couple of mornings ago, Charlotte...

Dodge stood back, leaning up against the brick wall, watching as his foe and the girl walked away together, whispering things that the wind whisked away. Only then, when her red cloak was gone and Spot's arrogance no longer tainted the street, did he head out of the cold himself.

* * *

><p><strong>End Note<strong>: Well, that was a bit of time, wasn't it? November always does that to me - with NaNo - and then Christmas, plus the fact that this chapter just... it just didn't want to be finished. I don't know how many times I re-did it until I felt like it flowed smoothly enough to finally post this. I really want to get back on track with this story - and finish up some others - so let's hope for the best ;) New year, new fic writing.

- _stress, 1.12.12_


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